


The Vase

by dierlirious



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dierlirious/pseuds/dierlirious
Summary: There’s nothing like a wild party at Harry Kane’s after an electrifying national win. Nothing like smashing his wife’s most expensive vase while fighting about tennis on WiiSports. Nothing like stumbling around half-blind, trying to avoid drunkenly confessing your undying love for Eric Dier.Poor Dele. It’s going to be quite a night.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Omg it’s ma first fic! Shockin tha! Be my friend on tumblr @dierlirious and we can keep chatting <3<3<3

It’s high-pitched, and short, and suddenly Dele’s heart stops. He looks at Chilly, whose face reflects back at Dele exactly what they’re both feeling. They look towards the door, the tinny music fading into the background as they quickly stand up and assess the damage.

It’s bad, man. 

A large blue porcelain - vase? maybe? - is lying on the floor, shattered into probably forty pieces, Dele guesses. He wasn’t much good at maths in school, but there are enough pieces to utterly destroy the vase. H had once told them Kate got it as a housewarming present. It’s from China. 

They’re in big trouble. 

English boys are good guests, it’s clear, and despite the copious volumes of alcohol the team has consumed as a unit, no one cheers, just a soft joint ‘ooh,’ from John and Kyle, and nervous grimaces from the other boys as they assess the damage. Dele thanks whatever god is currently up there that Eric’s in the other room. He couldn’t deal with any more embarrassment. It’s bad enough to apologise for breaking a vase at age 23, it would be worse to do it in front of your - ahem - best friend. 

‘Come on, then.’ He shakes his head at Chilwell and they stumble into the other room, shuffling under the weight of too much ‘good beer.’ Dele hates beer, pretty sure John does too, anyone would have to to call some of it ‘good.’ It all tastes the same; it all tastes of old piss. Dele’s still on his fourth, though. 

‘Um, H?’ Dele pokes his head around the kitchen door. Harry turns around from where he’s leaning against the bar, next to Eric. Dele’s heart skips a beat and he quickly turns to Ben to give the announcement. He’s not sure he’ll be able to deliver the message clearly. 

Ben clears his throat, Dele’s not really sure why, and shrugs apologetically. ‘We kind of, um, broke a vase.’

H’s face drops.

‘In the lounge?’ he asks, with the raised eyebrows of a disappointed headteacher.

They both nod, drunken brains making him more scary than usual.

‘Don’t worry.’ He smiles good-naturedly. ‘Only a vase, innit. Can’t even put stuff in it, too big.’

A part of Dele is brushing it off with Harry’s easy-going response, the part of him that spends thousands on clothes he wears once, and meets girls from Instagram, lets them suck him off and never hears from them again. Just a vase, innit. 

But another part of him, the part that craves connection, that loves finding new family, that would do anything to make himself feel wanted, that part of him feels cozily reassured that H doesn’t want him to worry. He basks in the glow of that feeling, can sense it warming him up like the sun on a beach lounger. 

Come on then. Time for some humour, Dele. Time to lighten the mood. Time to get Eric- everyone laughing again. ‘Good thing Chilly’s not big enough to hit anything important, then.’

Before Chilwell can express his visible outrage, H continues with his monologue. 

‘Kate’s gonna murder me for that.’ Harry shakes his head, and Dele feels rather guilty. ‘Grown bloody men, the pair of you.’

‘Honestly, Chills. I’m disappointed.’ Dele shrugs and tuts at Chilwell, as he lounges against the kitchen counter, trying to make himself as visible to Eric as possible without having to make eye contact. That’s his thing. He’s presented himself, the floral Versace shirt makes sure of that - Winksy said he reminded him of his nan’s curtains, and got a chinese burn for his trouble, because Dele’s still eleven years old - but he’s almost certain that having to properly look at Eric might actually kill him, so he settles on looking straight ahead. This a direct view of Harry Kane’s arse, which, boding poorly for his next few nights of teenage dreams, looks pretty good in his black jeans. Yikes, Dele thinks. I need to get laid. 

He’s pulled out of his reverie about Harry Kane’s golden globes as Ben splutters from the other side of the room, where he’s drying glasses. ‘You what, Bamidele?’

‘I’m just saying, if you hadn’t switched on the Wii, we’d never be in this mess.’ Dele smiles a sad smile, full of hidden glee. 

‘It wasn’t even my turn!’ Ben gapes. ‘It was you and Winksy!’ He wiggles his finger, pointing between Dele and Harry, who’d gone to sit next to Eric at the other side of the bar table. 

‘Hey, hey, hey, leave baby Winks out of this.’ Eric pipes up. He ruffles Harry’s hair, and the younger man rolls his eyes but, Dele notices, pinks. A small, jealous part of him prickles at this, but he remembers just in time to squash that part of him down as far as it can go, and instead reaches for his favourite coping mechanism: ignoring the problem. 

‘You’re saying that if no one had switched the wii on you would still have fallen over in the living room? Wow, Chilly, sounds like a you problem.’ Dele’s quite proud of that. Didn’t have to address them. 

‘You pushed me! How was that my fault!’ Chilly yells, squawking with laughter.

‘From the smell of it, it was definitely ONE of you!’ Dele wonders if he’s really that drunk, but then he’s preoccupied with Harry’s particular outfit. He does look rather hilarious in his apron, a spot of sauce on his left cheek.

‘Well it wasn’t me.’ Dele puts his hands on his hips. ‘Benjamin?’ He raises his eyebrows and Ben rolls his eyes.

‘Fine!’ He finally admits. ‘Dele pushed me, but I fell back on the vase. I’m sorry, H, I’ll buy Kate something nice for her birthday.’

Harry shakes his head but smiles in a way that lets them know it’ll be him taking the brunt of the blame for this particular escapade. Dele pities Harry, really - women get so fussy about this kind of thing. He’ll be a nightmare in training, probably stuck with blue balls for a month. 

‘Disappointing, Chilly.’ Dele crosses his arms and shakes his head.

‘Wh- what?’ Ben splutters again. He turns to Harry with a whine. ‘Dele had the last Heineken you put back in the fridge!’

Dele gasps at the traitor and H turns to him with an open mouth. ‘Betrayal!’ He grins, faking a hurt voice. ‘I was wondering where that went!’

‘Well - Ben said he’d give Gareth a nosh if he asked.’

Eric snorts at Dele’s sudden escalation, Harry looks like he wants to disappear into the ground. Dele wonders if he’s taken it to far, then Ben starts wagging his finger:

‘Dele said Viv looked like a piece of - of cheese!’ Ben slurs. 

‘Ben was late to England trials because he was having a wank!’

This ping-pong of exposure is more exciting than the pens and Eric and the Harrys are waiting in electrified anticipation. They don’t expect anything juicy, but the alcohol is making everything more ridiculous and Dele’s Real Housewives-style pointing is not helping that. 

‘Dele doesn’t know what a croissant is!’

‘Ben had the last slice of Ivy’s birthday cake!’ 

‘Dele’s in love with Eric!’

And suddenly Dele doesn’t like the game anymore, and the room’s a bit too bright, and everything’s too quiet.

And Eric’s staring right at him with those big blue eyes and there’s a look on his face that Dele could read if he wasn’t such a gosh darn lightweight. 

But he IS a lightweight, and the last thing he remembers is Harry Kane’s eyebrows drawing together and a big pair of arms wrapped around him and a stain on the kitchen ceiling that looks a bit like Mo Salah.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, dear, sweet reader, of course I didn’t write chapter 2 instead of going to the gym. On a cold, rainy morning at 5.30am? Why would I do that?

When Dele opens his eyes, he’s in his bed, and doesn’t know how he got there. After the initial moment of confusion, racking his brain for the memory, he realises he actually doesn’t know how he got there. The last thing he remembers is Harry Kane’s kitchen, and Chilly, and Eric, and-

He sits bolt upright. 

F u c k.

Eric.

That’s why he’s here. The memory comes flooding back and his heart sinks like a stone. When he next sees Ben Chilwell he’ll give him a little show of HIS King Power, cheeky basterd. Chilly must have been six drinks in, bless him, but that was too much. The mere memory makes him shudder, and he feels his cheeks darken. He buries his head in his hands. Really, Dele? Did you really have to faint? This isn’t Proud and Prejudiced, or whatever that movie was, that Diet made them watch after he won five consecutive games of UNO. (Hardly Dele’s finest hour)

Harry’s gone home for the weekend, and Dele lets out a groan of embarrassment, and it feels good, echoing around his big empty house. He punches the duvet, thinking how stupid he was for escalating the situation. Embarrassing enough to break a porcelain vase the size of a small Marmaduke. Why did he have to start some kind of baity tennis with a clattered Chilwell?

He extends his moan to more of a roar. He just sits in his bed and shouts, and wriggles his toes, and punches the bed, until:

‘Y’alright up there?’

The voice is deep and it’s coming from downstairs. 

Dele’s throat goes dry and his jaw slackens.

Is the universe serious? Really?

He dithers for a response, grimacing at himself. ‘Shut up! Hangover’s gonna kill me.’

He can hear laughing and then footsteps coming up the stairs. What an idiot. What a first-class moron. What an absolute knob. What a-

‘Breakfast, baby?’

Dele’s eyebrows nearly shoot out of his head. 

Eric Dier pushes the door the rest of the way open with his foot and is standing in his doorway, wearing just a pair of shorts, holding a tray of fucking breakfast.

Why doesn’t the universe just end him now. Probably the best way to go. Not sure he can handle Eric’s pity party and soft, gentle, kind rejection. 

He comes to sit down at the end of Dele’s frankly oversized bed and lays down the tray. He’s brought cereal (milk in first, Dele can tell) toast, and even some egg and tomatoey thing which Dele will leave him to because there’s three of his tiny takeaway packs of Nutella resting by the cutlery and napkins- napkins?

‘Napkins?’ Dele scrunches up his face  

‘Thank you, Eric, what a kind thing to do, what a good friend you are to me, I’m so happy to have you in my life.’ Eric drones and shakes his head. ‘Hell of a hangover, huh? You look terrible.’

Dele just holds up his middle finger as he surveys the tray. 

‘Well, in that case,’ Eric moves to take the tray away with a smirk and Dele flaps his arms in protest.

‘Sorry! Sorryyyyyy.’ he whines. ‘Hungry.’

‘Go on then,’ Eric gestures to the food, and they both take a bowl of Cheerios.

After a minute of quiet munching, Dele realises in horror that he’s forgotten about the whole Chilwell thing. He wonders if Eric has too. Weird to stay over and not even mention it. 

‘Thanks for getting me home.’ he says quietly.

Eric laughs softly. ‘Not sure it was a good idea to spend the night at Kate and Harry’s, and I didn’t think you’d be waking up in a hurry.’ 

‘Wasn’t that drunk.’ Dele grumbles. 

‘You bloody passed out, mate, didn’t think you could do that on Prosecco.’ Eric laughs, and Dele’s sure he’s being loud on purpose. 

‘It was beer!’ Dele hisses. ‘Didn’t have any Prosecco!’

‘Stones get in your head?’ Eric’s still grinning and takes a sip of his orange juice. Dele didn’t remember buying orange juice but he reaches to drink it anyway.

He takes a sip, ready for the tangy hit of the juice, and is instead bombarded with a thick, sickening weight on his tongue, nothing at all like juice.

‘The hell is that?’ he chokes, looking at Eric like he’s put dog poo on his toast.

‘Egg. Hangover cure.’ Eric shrugs. ‘Didn’t think - Oh, Del, you thought it was orange juice!’ He laughs and slaps his thigh.

Dele mopes into his egg. Not that funny.

‘Fuck’s sake, mate, I wasn’t that drunk!!’ Dele whines again, trying to drink the egg but really, really not wanting to.

‘How much do you remember?’ Eric asks, mouth full of that tomato thing which actually looks quite appetising now.

‘Pardon?’ Dele asks, pedantically. ‘I can’t quite understand you, Diet.’

Eric rolls his eyes and finishes his mouthful. Then his face gets a bit more serious and Dele’s heart drops.

‘Last night. How much of it do you remember.’

Deflect, Dele, come on.

‘Remember wiping the floor with Winksy at wii tennis.’ he begins. ‘And smashing poor Kate’s vase. Oh, fuck.’ 

‘And Ben?’

‘He told me I looked like the Mii with the weird glasses and I pushed him over.’

‘Dele?’ Eric sounds like Sally when she wants something out of him that he’s not telling her.

‘Yeah?’

‘What else with him?’

‘Oh, yes, Chilly’s an arsehole and I’m going to break his neck.’ Dele smiles matter-of-factly.

They both laugh but it’s a short, nervous laugh that Dele hates because he can’t make out how Eric really feels. 

‘Is it true?’ Eric asks, with this weird mix of confusion and ? excitement? on his face. 

‘What?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Del!’ Eric groans.

‘Yes.’ he answers, shortly. Damage is done now. Can’t get much worse.

But Eric just. Fucking. Beams.

‘Really?’

‘What?’

‘Like, you’re in love with me?’ Eric’s eyebrows are sloping upwards and he looks so dopey that Dele just wants to kiss him but he remembers he’s got to answer the question.

‘Yes.’ Dele snaps, frowning.

‘Oh my. Del.’ Eric is smiling from ear to ear and he’s actually so attractive like this, just sitting on Dele’s bed with his big chest, and Dele covers his face in embarrassment.

‘Shut up, okay.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t make it weird. I’ll be totally normal. Chilly’s a dick. Don’t be one too.’

‘Chilly’s not a dick,’ Eric says slowly, and the words hit Dele one by one like musical notes on a scale. ‘I think he was trying to help, because he knew that I like you too. 

He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows impossibly high.

‘You what?’

Eric’s smiling that dopey smile again, but Dele realises it’s not to make fun of him. He’s happy. He’s happy that Dele likes him? He, Eric Dier, likes Dele?

Eric puts his hands in Dele’s. His hands are huge and surprisingly soft for a man who looks like he’s in the EDL.

‘I’m in love with you, Dele. I have been for years.’ he says, carefully and slowly.

Dele can’t help the smile that toys on his lips. ‘Years, huh? Whipped on me, are you, Diet?’

Eric shakes his head and rolls his eyes but he’s smiling somehow more.

‘You’re such a.’ He leans forward towards Dele and Dele’s heart starts beating around seven hundred beats a minute, but he somehow gets the courage to lean in too.

‘Such a what, Diet?’

They sit like this, eyes flickering to each other’s mouths, then back to eyes, then back down again, hands still held tightly.

Surprise surprise, it’s Eric who closes the distance, and Dele thinks there’s a serious chance he might fully swoon again.

The kiss is light, it only lasts a few seconds, and Dele bathes in a the golden afterglow as he just stares at Eric, and watches Eric stare back at him, both wearing similar stupid smiles. 

‘Such a terrible kisser!’ Eric says softly. ‘Awful! Technique, absolutely zero.’

‘Well,’ Dele says, placing a hand on Eric’s thigh for balance. He’s quite proud of this one: ‘you’ll have to teach me.’


End file.
